I called my friend Dot a douche bag. It was a long time ago, like 15 years or something. We were on a business trip from Atlanta to Savannah in her maroon Volvo. We’d already had a couple of great pretend fights, the most recent over music. She insisted that she needed to hear the most
character-free crud imaginable: Air Supply, I think. I demanded something more substantial: Erasure. I know that’s laughable; I mean: what’s the difference, right? But their song, ‘Drama,’ was big in the clubs at the time and seemed to be pregnant with
meaning (‘just one psychological drama after another . . . and you are GUILTY!’) .
We compromised by alternating: one of hers followed by one of mine.
It was about the time we made the turn from I-75 on to I-16 that we hit a bump and the glove compartment door dropped open and her gun fell out onto the floor between my feet.
‘What the hell is that?!’ I shrieked.
She took the cigarette out of her mouth, exhaled calmly and replied, ‘My gun.’
‘Your gun! What in the world are you doing with a gun!’
‘I keep it for protection.’
‘Oh, come on, Dot; you can’t be serious!’
‘Well, I’ll be damned if I’m going to sit still while somebody comes after me!’
‘What makes you think anybody’s going to come after you?’
‘Wake up, Pollyanna: it happens every day!’
And so it went, back and forth, back and forth. I was (and still am) utterly against ordinary citizens carrying guns. I believe that’s a setup for more and more violent crime, particularly the kind that happens in the heat of the moment or by mistake. I want the guns only in the hands of the Police and the violent criminals; so they can shoot it out. Everybody duck!
Dot is completely on the other side of that fence. She always carries a gun and is certain it keeps her safe, especially when she’s on the road. Her husband, Bob, goes to great lengths to secure the very best weapons he can find for both of them, and they cradle and adore their pistols as if they were cooing babies.
Back and forth we went, louder and louder. Finally she called me a
pansy and I instantly came back with, ‘Well, you’re a douche bag!’
Well, she glanced over at me, curled her lips down in a grimace, took her cigarette and flipped it out the window. As she turned back to her driving. I watched as a single silver tear dripped down her cheek.
‘Oh, Dot,’ I said,’ Don’t take it that way. I don’t think you’re bad or wrong to have a gun – I just don’t like them and don’t want to be around them, that’s all.’ Another tear was following the first and her eyes were over full with more. ‘If you want to carry a gun, that’s fine with me. I still love the hell out of you and always will.’
‘That’s not it,’ she choked out. ‘I don’t care what you think about that. You’re the fool.’
‘So why are you crying?’
‘You called me a douche bag! I’ve never been called a name like that before in my life! How could you call me that?! It’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard!’
I was flabbergasted. It never occurred to me that anyone would take offense at being called a douche bag by a good friend. To me it was a teasing term of endearment, fine and fun between friends. But there, behind the wheel was one of my best friends in tears because of what I’d said. It was a real eye-opener.
Of course, we easily got over that hump and were able to laugh about the incident for the rest of the trip. I’ve even called Dot a Douche Bag a time of two since and she’s laughed because she now understands my intent. But that’s not the point.
The point is that two people can have completely different understanding of the meaning, color or intent of a bad word. And to use bad words indiscriminately is to turn your back on real communication.
I listen to the kids today: ‘Fuck this and fuck that and mother fucker this and fucking that.’ It is utterly jarring to me. To me, they might as well be raking their fingernails across a chalkboard. I can’t seem to become numb to it. I always hear, always notice and am always a little shocked. Maybe that’s why they do it. Probably not.
I guess I’m just getting old. Language is changing and I’m not. I hear that now fuck is ok on TV as long as it doesn’t describe the act of copulation. You have to use it as a modifier: ‘you fucking douche bag!’ I remember the first time I heard the word ‘Bitch’ on TV. I don’t think I breathed for 5 minutes.
Titties on TV don’t upset me at all. Big deal. Even wieners on TV don’t shock anymore. Between Six Feet Under, Oz and Queer as Folk, I’ve seen lots of them. But fuck still gets me.
I predict: before the end of this decade, someone in a TV commercial will say something like, ‘Ajax really works . . . no shit!’
Women seem to take particular offense at the word, cunt. It’s like the worst word you can use around a woman. Pussy, slit, bitch, cock-tease: all are mild in comparison to cunt. And I’m really not sure why. I mean, it’s a bad word, no doubt about it. But what makes it worse than, say, bitch?
A lot of times a word becomes offensive based on who’s using it. I get called a fag or a nancy-boy by my friends and it’s just fine. It seems to be ok when one black person calls another ‘nigger.’ But if I’m called ‘fag’ on the street, I’m ready to fight.
And then there’s fashion. It’s offensive to call an Asian person ‘Oriental’ now. It didn’t use to be. That’s what we said: ‘This Oriental guy came up to the bar . . ‘ Today that’s rude. We say, ‘This Asian gentleman approached the bar . . . ‘
Such is life and language. I am sorry about my shocking event with Dot. I love her very much and never want to hurt her. I’m glad we got over it and are able to laugh about it today. I guess I’m just an insensitive motherfucking asshole to have not understood that before I opened my god-damned filthy fucking mouth.
Dot was one of my closest friends. She’s one of the first I came out to, and that produced tears, too. But they were quickly wiped away and nothing between us changed. She and her husband, my boyfriend and I took several trips together: Yosemite, North Georgia Mountains, rockhounding in Nevada. She died in May of 2016 after a quick battle with Pancreatic Cancer. When I heard the diagnosis, I wanted to go see her, but her husband asked me not to. She was in pretty bad shape and didn’t want anyone to see her. So we became phone friends. I miss her so much.